


all aboard the love train

by therestlessbrook



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, There should be more train fics, Trains, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:42:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22729339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therestlessbrook/pseuds/therestlessbrook
Summary: He exhales and looks out the window. She follows his gaze and sees the train station. “Do you trust me?”“What kind of question is that?” she says sharply.“The straightforward kind,” he says.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Karen Page
Comments: 11
Kudos: 138





	all aboard the love train

**Author's Note:**

> The Valentine’s Day fic no one asked for but I wrote nonetheless. :)

The train ticket comes in an unmarked envelope. 

Karen isn’t even quite sure how the envelope managed to make its way into her inbox; her name isn’t even on it. There is a sticker, though. The kind that kids might use to decorate a letter. It’s of a white rose. Her thumbnail presses a crease into the image and then she tears it open. The ticket falls out and she gazes at it, blinking several times. The ticket is for that night—a 6pm train to New Orleans. She checks her watch; if she leaves now, she might make it. 

“Got a date for Valentine’s Day tonight?” says Ellison, when he sees her hastily putting on her coat. 

“Not a date,” she says, mouth on autopilot, as she yanks on her scarf. “I—maybe gone for a few days. I’ve got my laptop, so if you need me, I’m on email. I’ll get my next two articles in by Monday.” No matter what the ticket means, this isn’t a date. It’s a message—but one she hasn’t managed to decipher. 

Ellison raises his brows, but he knows her well by now. “You’re going out of town to meet a source, aren’t you?” 

She gives him a tight-lipped smile. “Not sure yet. We’ll see.” 

She leaves the office—cluttered with roses and paper hearts—and heads for the elevator. All she has on her is her purse, but she doesn’t care. She’ll figure out the rest as she goes. 

The Amtrak station is quiet; perhaps everyone who is traveling for the holiday has already arrived at their destination. The man who takes her ticket nods and says, “The attendant will show you to your room.” 

She almost repeats the word back—room not seat—and then there’s a young woman waving Karen along. She follows, feeling a bit as if she’s stepped off the edge of the world. She’s not sure what she’s getting into, but then again, Karen Page has never had particularly good survival instincts. Perhaps she should run, but she knows she won’t. 

The attendant guides Karen down a long corridor to a room at the end. She’s smiling and chipper, talking about what time the complimentary meals will be served, and if Karen needs anything, anything at all, to ask. Karen pulls the door open and blinks. 

The room is narrow. There’s a fold-out couch that probably transforms into a bed, and a small table beside the window has two beers on it. Sitting before the table is—

“Frank,” she says, as soon as the door slips shut behind her. 

She knows his name is supposed to be Pete now, but she can’t bring her lips to form the word. He will forever be Frank to her. 

“Hey,” he says. 

She slips her purse onto the couch before settling onto the opposite chair. He pushes one of the beers toward her and she takes it. 

“You came straight from work,” he says. 

She shrugs and glances at the beer. It’s the same brand she offered him once upon a time, back when he first reappeared with a beard and a backpack full of roses. He must have remembered.

She says, “Well, when one receives a mysterious envelope, one doesn’t stop home to pack a bag. It ruins the mystique.” 

“That so?” he replies. “You got a lot of experience with mysterious envelopes?”

She sets the beer down. “What is this, Frank?”

He exhales and looks out the window. She follows his gaze and sees the train station. “Do you trust me?”

“What kind of question is that?” she says sharply. 

“The straightforward kind,” he says. “The yes or no kind.”

She considers it—she truly does. Frank Castle is a man that most people wouldn’t consider trustworthy, but then again, most people haven’t offered up their gun, told him to put it to their chin and trusted him not to pull the trigger. It’s one of the few times she can remember seeing his hands unsteady.

“Yes,” she says. “I trust you.”

The train abruptly lurches and Karen grabs for her armrest. 

“Good,” says Frank. “Because we’ve got a bit of a trip ahead of us.” 

She blinks at him. “We—we’re not actually going to New Orleans, are we?”

“Settle in,” he replies. “Got about thirty hours of travel time.”

She gives him a flat look, then says, “I didn’t pack a bag.” 

He smiles—and it’s a little mischievous and makes her stomach turn over. It’s a smile she’s seen only once or twice on him, and it makes her ache because of the possibilities. He reaches behind him and hands her a backpack. “Guessed at your size,” he says. 

She unzips it and glances through the contents. There’s a toothbrush and pajamas, a gorgeous blue sweater, jeans, and something that might be a dress or a skirt. 

She doesn’t know how to respond to this; she hasn’t seen or talked to Frank Castle in months, and he just reappears with train tickets and clothes and—

“Dinner reservation’s at seven,” he says. “My room is the adjoining one.” He rises, then goes to a door she hasn’t noticed and pushes it open. “I need to make a few calls, but if you need anything, just knock.” 

She nods and watches as Frank slips into a bedroom identical to hers. The door clicks shut and she’s alone—on a train to a city over a thousand miles away.

* * *

A quick investigation of her bedroom and Karen discovers the tiny shower and toilet, as well as how the couch will transform into a bed. She settles atop it, opening the backpack and spilling the contents across the sheets. Once she takes stock of her things, she checks her phone. It’s only at fifty percent battery and she doesn’t have a charger with her, so she shuts it off. 

She changes into one of the outfits—a black dress that hits her just above the knee. It’s cute, and she has to admire that it does fit her. When seven rolls around, she knocks on Frank’s door and he answers it in jeans and dark, buttoned shirt. He looks good—and she feels a rush of heat when his gaze slides over her. 

“The dress fits,” she says. 

“Yes, it does.” Frank’s eyes meet hers. 

That heat seems to gather in her neck and cheeks, and she’s the one who has to look away. 

The dining car is a short walk away; Karen glances at the train as they make their way from car to car. It’s narrow and the rocking makes everything a little unsteady, but she likes the look of the train. 

They’re giving a small corner table in the dining car. There’s a single red rose set at all of them, she notices. The rest of the car is filled with couples—mostly older ones. They’re the youngest people here by at least twenty years. Their server beams at them, setting menus out, and asking what they’ll have to drink. 

“Red wine?” asks Karen. 

“Sounds good,” says Frank, and nods to the server. 

The atmosphere is decidedly, almost painfully romantic. There are candles and soft music and the couple nearest them is holding hands. Karen looks down at her napkin and begins toying with the ring. 

“So are you ever going to tell me what this is about?” she says, once they’ve ordered food. 

Frank lets out a breath. “Someone put a price on your head,” he says. “Thirty thousand.”

She blinks. “Well that’s insulting. I’d have hoped for at least fifty.”

“Not even going to ask who did it?”

“Well, I assume,” she says, a little tartly, “that I’ll find out when their bodies are found in the Hudson.”

He shakes his head. “Forwarded a tip to Homeland.”

She frowns, and she can feel her forehead scrunching with confusion. “Homeland?”

But before he can answer, their server returns with dinner. He sets down the plates, and then he whisks away to attend to another couple waving him over. Karen picks up her fork and knife, looking down at the steak in front of her. Frank got the fish, which smells like garlic and lemon, and she finds herself eyeing it with interest. 

“You’ve been digging into Clive Lee’s campaign for mayor,” he says. “You found money laundering, right?” Then he cuts off a small portion of his fish, sliding it onto her plate without a word. 

“Nothing confirmed yet,” she says. She takes a bite of the fish and groans in pleasure. “Damn, that’s good. I was looking into the mayor electoral candidates and found Lee’s financials. With election season coming up…” Her mind races. “He’s really dirty, isn’t he?”

“He’s a puppet,” says Frank dismissively. “But the guys he’s working with—yeah, they’re dirty as hell. And they’ve got ties to Russia. Which is why I think Madani’ll be glad to take this on. Told her where they’d be meeting on Sunday.”

“And how did you find out?” 

Frank shrugs one shoulder. “You really want to know?” 

She looks down at her food. The red meat is a little too rare for her tastes, red liquid seeping from that last cut of the knife. 

“And why are you here, instead of there?” she asks.

“Homeland can take care of it,” says Frank. “Madani gets a win. You get out of the city. I keep Pete Castiglione’s record clean. Wins all around.”

That’s not really his style, though. Frank has always been a… hands on problem solver. But maybe things have changed since Billy Russo was put in a hospital and a CIA officer was brutally murdered in an underground bunker. 

Karen can put the pieces together. She’s a rather good investigative reporter.

Maybe, after everything, he’s found some small measure of peace. 

She hopes he has. 

“So you booked two train tickets,” she says. “Seems kind of… I mean, you could’ve just called me. Told me to lay low for a few days.”

“Didn’t have your number.”

She doesn’t bother to keep the skepticism out of her voice. “My email is on the Bulletin’s website.”

“Maybe I wanted to make sure you got out of town for a few days,” says Frank. 

“And a fait accompli was easier than trying to convince me that I was in danger?” 

The edges of his mouth twitch. “Wouldn’t be the first time you were reckless.”

And it isn’t the first time he’s tried to keep her safe, either. Only this time, his protection involves red wine and a train dining car. 

“Did I ruin your Valentine’s Day?” he asks. 

She snorts. “I only noticed because of all the roses in the office.”

“You didn’t have a date?” He looks more than a little incredulous. 

She takes another sip of wine. “Only with a bottle of beer and vibrator.” Maybe she should lay off the wine. She sets down the glass. 

Frank is the one to snort this time. “Well. Sorry you had to cancel that romantic evening.”

“It’ll keep.”

They’re quiet for a few moments, but it’s the comfortable kind of quiet. Karen finishes her potatoes and Frank gazes out the window. There are distant city lights; Karen doesn’t know where they are, not anymore. This train feels like some kind of liminal space, an in-between dimension that real life cannot touch. 

Their server appears and slides a small chocolate torte onto the table. “For the lovely couple,” he says, smiling. He moves onto the next table before Karen can say a word. 

It seems a little too couple-y to be sharing dessert on Valentine’s Day, but the chocolate looks good. And there are raspberries. Karen reaches for one of the forks. 

“It’s good,” she says, after taking a bite. 

Frank takes his own fork, slicing off a small edge and popping the chocolate into his mouth. “You sound surprised.”

“I figured train food wouldn’t be great,” she admits. “Tiny kitchens and all that. But this is decent.”

They’re halfway done with the torte when Frank says abruptly, “Do you want more?”

She looks up. “I’m not sure if we can finish this one, actually.” 

A flash of indecision crosses his face, but he seems to steel himself. “No, not the food. I mean—Valentine’s Day. Shit, not even that. Dates—romance. The whole thing.” He grimaces, looking irritated with himself. “I’m not saying this right.”

She gets it. “Yeah. I do. It’s been… a long time for me. The last time I was in a serious relationship… well.”

“Bad break-up?” he asks, picking up his wine. 

“I shot him,” she says. “In the shoulder.”

His glass of wine freezes in midair. 

“He hurt you?” Frank says, and his voice is low and soft and utterly deadly. 

“He was going to kill someone very close to me,” she says. “I’ll—I’ll tell you the whole story someday. Just not tonight. But after that experience, it took a long time for me to come around to even considering being in a relationship again. Then there was Matt, who lied to me and now he’s gone, too and…” She shakes her head. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to unload all of this on you.”

When she glances up, Frank’s expression is all focused on her. His dark eyes are warm, his jaw a little tight. “S’okay. You know all of my secrets already. Just glad to know a few of yours.”

She smiles at him, and they finish their dinner.

When they return to their rooms, Karen says, “You want to come in?”

Frank hesitates. Then, he nods. There isn’t a lot of space in Karen’s room, so they both end up on the folded-out bed. Frank unzips his boots, setting them neatly beside the wall. It’s a strangely intimate little gesture; she’s never seen him just in socks before. Her own feet are bare. She wore flats to work, with the weather being unseasonably warm. 

“I have some pamphlets,” says Frank. “‘Bout New Orleans. I grabbed them before I left. If you want to find a few things to do… I mean, our train back isn’t for a couple of days. Figured you might want to look at the French Quarter or take one of those bayou tours.”

“Frank Castle, vacation planner,” she says, smiling. 

He laughs. “Maybe that’ll be my new job.”

“Looking for a career change?”

“I’ve got some money, now,” he says. “Haven’t quite figured out what I want to do now. You know. After.”

“After,” she repeats. She has never really put it into that context before. This is Frank’s after, the one she wanted for him. He’s alive and living—and he hasn’t made himself entirely scarce. 

She isn’t sure what to do with this—so she says, “I noticed you packed a deck of cards in that backpack you gave me.”

“Wasn’t sure how bored you might get,” he says. “You want to play?”

“I want—” She stumbles over the word. It’s too much—him being here in jeans and socks and a soft shirt, looking undone and gorgeous and present. With the heat of the wine in her veins and her legs bare and the soft sheets against her calves, everything is a little too near. A little too close. 

She isn’t sure how it happens, but her hand is on his arm. She looks at it, the pale fingers against the dark fabric. 

“Karen.” His voice is quiet. 

“Yeah?” She looks at him; she’s brave enough to meet his eyes. 

He’s looking at her again. That look like—like she’s the only thing he can see. And it sets her heart to pounding. 

“You never asked me,” he says. 

“Asked you what?” Her mouth is a little dry. 

“If I wanted more.” His hand covers hers and she feels it—the calluses of his gun hand sliding over her palm. Her stomach clenches up in a pleasurable sort of pain. “I do. And—and if I’m reading this wrong, tell me.” His fingers curl around hers. “I got you out of New York because—because I couldn’t take the chance. That those bastards would come at you, that they might get lucky.”

On a gut level, she knew that. She’s known it since that day in the hotel, when he promised to protect her and she knew he meant it. But she could never be sure if it was because Frank felt obligated to keep her safe or if it meant more.

This is her answer. 

She leans closer, her free hand touching his cheek. He doesn’t pull away when she kisses him; rather, he pulls her closer. 

It’s the best kind of kiss. It isn’t rushed or awkward—it’s just Frank. It’s all heat and strength and focus. It’s everything she never dared ask for, not from him. But he’s offering it willingly, and she’s so happy that she has to pull back just to laugh. 

“What is it?” he asks, but he’s smiling, too. 

“Just—I never thought my Valentine’s Day would end up like this,” she says. 

“Better than beer and a vibrator?” 

Her smile widens. “That remains to be seen.”

He makes a noise she can only categorize as a growl, and then she’s on her back and he’s kissing her again and she’s arching up against him. Her hands slide down his back, and his fingers are in her hair and it’s so good and he hasn’t even really touched her yet. 

It’s definitely her best Valentine’s Day yet. 


End file.
